Land of the Purple Dragon: The Curse Ravenous
by Pandorym
Summary: The king of Cormyr is dead, and the Princess Regent struggles to hold the kingdom together as many threats assail it. A mysterious traveler arrives in the village of Spearwater just as it is struck with a strange curse. M for violence.
1. Prologue

While the town of Spearwater and all the characters encountered over the course of the story are original, all other references to locations, characters, and lore of the Forgotten Realms setting are copyrighted by Wizards of the Coast and are used without permission for the sake of creating a tribute to the setting.

* * *

_Eleint 21, Year of the Snow Winds (1307 DR)_

A tree had just stepped on Miliar Summerstroke.

Her full-plate armor, made of well-polished steel engraved and painted with Lady Firehair's infamous curls, slowly bent beneath the aged oak's onslaught, pushing back into her chest and driving the air from her lungs bit by bit. Though she hacked furiously at the wood the plant-creature showed no sign of feeling any pain, and she was discovering firsthand why no lumberjacks used swords.

To her left, her Gnomish companion Filmus was struggling to slide a new stack of bolts into his bizarre crossbow as three snarling wolves advanced on him; seeing that he wouldn't be able to reload in time, he raised one hand and, twisting it in a series of bizarre patterns, squeaked out a few words of command. A wall of fire sprang up between him and his attackers, causing them to leap back with startled howls; Miliar wondered how long it would be before they discovered that the illusion gave off no heat.

On her right, her brother Simmin was trying to hack through the thorny vines that were twining themselves around his legs, squeezing ever tighter and slowly tearing through the leather pants he wore. Though his knife was sharp enough to cut the skin with the merest touch, it seemed to do little against his leafy assailants. Freeing one arm for a moment, he pulled a little bottle from his jacket and uncorked it, carefully directing the contents away from himself. Liquid as clear as water flowed out, but whatever it touched began to hiss and bubble. The vines recoiled, but several bushes rose up on their roots and rushed at him, bowling him over and sending the acid flask flying from his grasp.

It bounced, spilling its endlessly replenishing contents onto the ground and burning up the grass, then slowly rolled to a halt not far from the compressing Paladin's left arm. Giving breathless thanks to Sune, for the goddess of beauty had just beautified an ugly situation, she wriggled her shield off of her arm and carefully took it up. Silently invoking a red-gold light, she threw it with all of her strength, the glow following the crystal vessel as it traveled swiftly upward.

The throw was aided in both aim and potency by the magic she had called, and the vessel shattered among the oak's upper branches, sending jagged chunks of quartz and huge droplets of acid in every direction. Miliar's left arm lunged for her shield, only barely bringing it in front of her face in time to catch the deadly rain. The tree shuddered and, as though off balance, fell backward. It hit the ground with a resounding crash, roots splayed as if they had been ripped from the earth.

Gathering her strength again, Miliar managed to lift the tree's "leg" enough that she was able to shift out from under it. The acid had dealt it horrific damage; smoke curled up from its blackened limbs. It was regrettable that she had been forced to destroy something so beautiful, but it was for the sake of protecting other such things. Strapping her shield back onto her arm, she lifted her sword, somewhat blunted from all the time it had spent assailing the very solid tree, and charged at the wolves which were menacing Filmus again.

A crossbow bolt took one through the eye, and it crumpled to the dirt with a stifled whimper. Miliar's sword came down in a powerful hacking motion at another, but it leapt back, snarling and flinging flecks of spittle as it moved. The third one was behind her, she knew; with perfect timing she threw an armored elbow backward to meet its leap, breaking its jaw and sending it down to the dirt. Without even looking at it she stomped on its neck, ending its suffering. The other wolf howled mournfully, its cry joining with a very human one expressing the same grief.

The noise was cut off when a throwing knife embedded itself in the animal's throat; Miliar cleanly severed its head with an upward flick of her blade. Turning, she nodded her thanks to Simmin, who stood on the ruins of the bushes he'd incinerated with the wand in his belt, a second knife in hand. The trio advanced on the wall of thorns that blocked them from their true enemy. Simmin drew his wand again and flicked it at the barrier; instantly it burst into flames, and Miliar crashed through it shoulder first, splitting the now-brittle plants. She pointed her sword at the hunched figure beyond and spoke, her tone dour and final.

"Rhassag Alecti, I find you guilty of crimes against the people of Cormyr, among them murder and willful destruction of seven grain storehouses. It has already been proven that no prison can hold you; I must sentence you to death. Have you any last words?"

The druid looked up, his eyes wild, his hair matted and filthy beneath the green hood of his robe. Miliar's lip curled in disgust; this was the madman who had attacked and killed thirteen men and women in their fields and five soldiers of the crown, in addition to ensuring that many more would starve during the winter. She had offered him forgiveness, undeserving of it though he was, and he had escaped to kill again. And yet the expression on his face mirrored her own: zeal and determination were written on them both.

"I suppose it's fitting that you avenge your people just as I've avenged mine," he murmured, meeting her fierce gaze without flinching, "though the despoilers you failed to protect deserved their fate more than you'll ever understand." His face twisted into a sneer as he raised an accusing finger. "You people. You multiply and burn and cut and reap and leave so little for the rest of the world. I have acted to preserve the cycle. Whatever you do now, I will go to the woodland spirits as a hero."

Sickened, Miliar stepped forward and brought her blade to his throat. It was not the way of paladins to execute unarmed prisoners, but so long as this man lived he would continue to slay innocent people. The choice was clear and simple; the struggle and pleasure of life was pure and beautiful, and she was sworn to protect things of beauty. Her arms tensed, sending a tremor along her blade, and a line of blood appeared on the murderer's neck.

"**A king is born this day,**

**Great and beloved he will be,**

**A dragon him will slay,**

**And this land fall to enemies.**

**For each who bear his name**

**A single year shall pass**

**Then hun'grers come again**

**And bring balance at last."**

One swift stroke of her sword and the druid ceased speaking, his head gone from his shoulders. For a moment, all was still. "What do you think he meant?" Simmin's softly spoken question broke the ominous silence. "I don't know," Miliar replied, "but he and whatever foulness he was planning have met their end." Flicking the dispatched criminal's blood from her sword, she turned and walked away.

* * *

Many miles distant, in the royal palace in Cormyr's capital city of Suzail, a midwife held up the newborn Crown Prince Azoun IV for his mother to see.


	2. The Traveler

_Eleint 30, Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)_

A chill wind blew over the little valley that sheltered the town of Spearwater, pulling leaves down from the strong, aged trees of the orchard and into the carpet of yellow and brown-orange that covered the ground. It tugged at Kess Erron's cloak as he stood atop the palisade gate protecting the settlement, prompting him to draw it tighter over his chilled arms. The moisture it bore foretold early snows, prompting the farmers to work faster; Kess would be helping to bring in the harvest if he hadn't been stuck with militia duty.

He could see old Merrick and his sons Uthel and Alten leading the efforts to pluck the last of the apples from the trees, tossing the ripe fruit into great wooden barrels. The ripest they separated from the others; these would go bad before they could be traded for the grain that would bring them through the winter, so the village would feast on them during the harvest festival and dry the leftovers to keep grain from becoming too boring. The festival would be tonight, and Kess could hardly wait; they were roasting two entire pigs, and a new batch of goat cheese had just been finished. Besides, he'd heard Ayan was going to wear her white dress again.

Beyond the sturdy wood of the palisade, a thin alpine forest loomed in the half-light. Spearwater was built into a sort or ravine between two jagged peaks of the famed Storm Horns of Cormyr, protected on three sides by rock and the palisade as well as a rocky, difficult approach on the fourth. During the Goblin Wars a few years past, a group of Orcish bandits had tried to siege the town and were slain to the last attempting to charge it. Kess was proud to be of hardy mountain stock; they had never needed the King's protection, which was just as well now that there was only an overstretched regent to give it.

Turning away to watch the preparations again, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. His hands flew to his bow and quiver, and in less than a second he had an arrow on the string. Another second and he'd pulled it back to his cheek, ready to fire. Sure enough, something was coming up the rough mountain path. Kess watched it carefully; it was impossible to tell what it was from this distance, but the wind was behind him, and he could drop it in a second if it looked remotely hostile. It came closer, moving past the trees; it was clearly humanoid, but that counted for nothing in mountains where Orcs and bandits were common.

When it was finally close enough to be clearly seen, Kess allowed the tension in his bow to slowly ease. It was a young man, not much older than the militiaman himself, of very fair skin and with light brown curls atop his head. He wore an oilskin cloak, the hood bouncing behind him so that his features could be clearly seen, and clothing of grey linen. A sword was strapped across his back beneath a heavy pack; his step was weary and weighted, which made sense given that the only way to Spearwater was over rough terrain and uphill.

"Trav'lr ho!"

The young man's head snapped up, but the shout hadn't been intended for him. Merrick tossed one last apple into the village barrel and sprinted to the best of his ability toward the palisade; he was growing old and worn down with farm work, but he was still strong, and it took him only a minute or so to run across the village. Panting, he ascended the steps up to the tope of the gate, where he stood beside his nephew and looked down at the traveler below. "Doesn't look too dangerous, though the Maimed God knows why he'd be traveling in the Storm Horns this season."

"Ho there!" The youth just kept looking up expectantly. "What business have you in Spearwater?" He shook his head, then pointed to his mouth and shook it again. "Can't tell me? What's that supposed to mean?" He repeated the gesture. "Listen, at least tell me where you're bound for." Exasperated, he shouted in a deep, rich voice that made absolutely no sense, then shrugged his shoulders and fell silent. "I don't think he speaks Chondathan," Kess said. "Try Common." Merrick nodded, and repeated his first question in the harsher, less expressive tones of Faerun's trade language. But the young man just shook his head again.

"It could be a trap, but I couldn't see anyone with him." Merrick frowned; with most of its normal defenders occupied with the harvest, the village couldn't afford to take unnecessary risks, but no one wanted Spearwater to gain a reputation for turning away travelers; their inn, however small, generated much-needed income. Another shout from below, the words of it somehow both rough and flowing, drew the pair's attention back to the young man, who drew forth his sword and held it before him. Kess's hand flew to his bow again, but Merrick stopped him. "It's not like he can attack us from down there, and he must know that."

Sure enough, he laid the weapon flat across his palms and stopped, as though offering it to the sentries. Then, suddenly, he flipped it up from his hands, leaving it to spin in the air, then caught it as it came down, twisted it behind his back, threw it again, rolled the hilt down the slope of his neck and into his hand, twirled the flat of the blade around his arm, tossed it up again, and moved his back so that it landed cleanly in its sheath. The whole display took no more than a few seconds; Kess's eyes were wide, and even Merrick looked impressed. "So, he's an entertainer. Help me let him in, Kess."

The two of them made their way down beside the heavy wooden gate; taking hold of the winch, they heaved with all their might. Little by little, the wood moved upward, retracting into the hollow in the upper palisade. The mechanism was the most valuable thing in the village, and one of the most important; other towns of similar size usually couldn't afford such potent protection, and bandits usually went after easier prey. The traveler stepped beneath the huge wooden construct without even looking at it; probably from a city, Kess decided.

Making a little bow and saying a word the pair assumed meant "thank you", the young man made his hand into a tube and lifted it to his lips. "He's thirsty," Kess said. "I know that," Merrick replied irritably. "I'm not senile yet." Beckoning, the aged farmer set off up the dirt path through the middle of the village. "Go stare at the road again, Kess. You were lucky enough to actually see something interesting once. Maybe the next time it'll be an Ogre ready to rip the head off of any lad who thinks his elders are complete fools just because they've got grey hair." Despite his curiosity about the stranger, Kess obeyed. It was just his luck to be stuck at the palisade while a mysterious traveler passed through town.

* * *

Lilian Rysstas looked up with a start as the door of the Appleblossom Inn swung open to admit Merrick, closely followed by a tall stranger with very fair skin. She did a double take at the sight of a new face; the grain merchants weren't expected until the next day, and this young man was alone. She left her loom and hurried over to the bar, fixing a smile on her face. "Welcome, traveler. What can I get for you?" "He doesn't speak a lick of Chondathan, nor Common, neither." She raised an eyebrow at Merrick, but his face was perfectly serious. "What am I supposed to do, then?" "Play a little game of pantomime, like I did at the gate. Good luck."

He blew her a kiss, then turned and walked out, leaving her alone with the strange traveler. "Well, wherever you're from, you understand that you pay me," she mimed putting a coin down on the table, "and I give you a drink," she mimed raising a cup to her lips. He shook his head, and she sighed. "Well, so much for the basics." She looked around for help; a number of middle-aged women sat around the inn, filled barrels of freshly-picked apples beside them, cutting the bad spots out of the fruit for the night's celebrations. A few of them cast curious glances at the bar, and others shrugged, but none spoke up.

Turning back to the young man, she noticed that he had taken three cloth balls from the pockets of his leather jacket and was motioning with them, two in one hand and one in the other. "Sorry," she said. "Coin of the realm only. Or at least bring something a little better than that if you want to barter." He probably had no idea what she was saying, but maybe he got the gist of it. He shook his head again; it seemed to be his iconic gesture. Walking out into the center of the room, he vaulted onto an unoccupied table, turning all heads in his direction. "Hey! None of that! I just washed those tables!" It was half shout and half groan.

He flashed a winning smile around the room, his teeth startlingly white compared to the dingy, worn-down ones of the villagers, and tossed one ball into the air, then caught it with the same hand. He did it again; all eyes were now fixed on the little cloth balls. Without further delay, he began to juggle, slowly and easily transferring the little balls from hand to hand. It was simple enough; they'd seen a few minstrels do it before. Then, still keeping the three balls up in the air, he leaned down and delicately dipped his boot into one of the barrels. Flicking it upward, he brought an apple into his pattern, now of four.

A few people clapped, but he just shook his head again, still smiling. Then he did it again, and again; six spheres flew through the air, landing easily in his practiced hands despite their great speed. He was a blur of motion, as was each of his projectiles. A stronger round of applause broke out, but he shook his head yet again. He began throwing each ball higher, moving them up toward the ceiling. He moved along the table just a little bit, then tossed each ball (though not the apples) outward to bounce against the wall right above one of the recently-lit torches. Each one came back aflame, but he received them without hesitation; the leather gloves he wore protected his palms from the heat, and he kept his hands open so as not to smother the flame.

With this impressive array of objects, he began to skip, turning on the spot as he did so. Still spinning on his own axis like a top, he slowly cantered around the edge of the circular table, gradually gaining speed. A moment later and he was moving almost as fast as the balls he threw, half of them afire; he never seemed to be in doubt as to where to put his hands or feet, even after spinning for a good minute. The entranced women put down their knives and applauded hard, and this time he let them, still smiling as he moved.

Slowly he came to a stop, extinguishing the balls and allowing the apples to fall neatly back into the barrel. Pocketing his implements, he stepped down from the table to continued clapping, then made his way back to the bar. Mirth in his eyes, he mimed drinking just as Lilian herself had done. Agape, it took her a moment to react, but she deftly filled a mug of ale and set it before him; he'd earned at least that much. He picked it up and brought it back over to the table he'd stood upon, then drew a sword of modest quality from the sheath beneath his backpack.

He drained the ale of its froth, bringing the liquid to just below the top of the cup, then placed one hand over the opening. Taking his sword in the other, he tapped the cup with it, drew his arm back, and swung straight at the clay vessel. The assembled women gasped as the sound of breaking earthenware echoed through the Appleblossom. Yet, an instant later, the young traveler lifted the perfectly intact cup up to the light for all to see, then drank freely from it, emptying it in one long swig. Returning to the bar as the applause renewed, he passed the empty container over and mimed drinking again.

Lilian picked it up, looking for cracks, but she could find none; she'd definitely heard it shattering and seen the sword pass right though it, but the outside wasn't even wet. Amazed, she refilled it and set it before him again. This time he simply stood on one of the stools adjacent to the bar and, lifting the cup in one hand, tossed it over his head. It turned over twice in the air before he caught it in his other hand, but not a single drop of ale splashed out. As clapping once again filled the inn, he took a bow and sat at the stool, where he began to slowly and tranquilly drink his beverage as though nothing had happened.

"If I can just figure out how to get him to the festival," the awed innkeeper mused, "we'll have the kingliest entertainment in all the Storm Horns."


	3. The Hungerers

It didn't prove to be all that difficult, in the end; when the traveler asked for food, Lilian managed to mime that there would be a feast later, and he'd nodded eagerly. Then, to her surprise, he simply went over and curled up by the hearth, where he'd slept for several hours. Wherever he'd come from, it must've been a long ways away. Hesitantly she'd roused him at what she judged to be a little before midnight, but he'd awoken easily enough. Picking up the pack on which he'd laid his head and drawing his cloak closer around him, he had accompanied her into the night.

The two of them walked in the darkness, the dirt path illuminated only by the stars and the Tears of Selune in the sky above, though they could see the orange glow of the great festival bonfire ahead of them. Leaves crunched beneath their feet, the sound barely audible over the shouts and songs of the festival revelers. Highharvestide was the most important festival of the year in Spearwater, a time to give thanks to Chauntea for the harvest and beg Silvanus for a mild winter. Garlands of autumn leaves were hung over the entrance to every home, an acknowledgement of the farmers' subordination to nature.

They drew close to the colossal fire, the heat of it evident even from a good fifteen feet away, and the shouts became deafening. Lilian spotted Kess, a look of rapture on his face, dancing with Ayan, whose long dark hair gleamed in the firelight, as did the low-cut white dress her father had bought her for her birthday. She was known as the village beauty, with a good chance of fetching a suitor from one of the larger towns on the plains below. Yet the stranger's eyes weren't on her; instead they were halfway around the circle of revelers.

His gaze was fixed upon a young woman in a simple dress of blue linen, hair of dark gold falling to her shoulders. Her face was full of joy, and though she wasn't dancing she clapped to keep time for the others. "Visse," she whispered knowingly; famed for her kind heart and tremendous energy, Visse was much beloved by the villagers. It seemed difficult for the traveler to tear his eyes away from her laughing features; he was as entranced by her as Lilian had been by his performance. But after a long moment he looked back to the innkeeper and nodded. It was time for him to begin.

Lilian stepped onto the podium on one side of the fire and waited for things to gradually die down; it took several minutes for the people on the other side of the bonfire, who couldn't see her, to realize that everyone else had stopped dancing. They shuffled around the fire's edge to see what was going on, and that was when she spoke in a loud, clear voice born of supervising four children and watching two die. "People of Spearfish, Chauntea and Silvanus must surely smile on our festival today, for they have sent us the most skilled man I've ever seen, who also can't understand a word I'm saying. Help me to welcome this stranger!"

A round of applause brought the young traveler onto the podium beside Lilian, who then stepped down. He took a bow and, the clapping still continuing, drew forth his sword and held it before him as though in a combat stance. With an easy toss he brought it up into the air, then caught the pommel on the bridge of his nose. He took seven quick steps in various directions and, when he halted, the sword stood straight up, perfectly balanced. Bending his knees, he suddenly straightened them to force the weapon back into the air, then caught the flat of the blade between his palms, point down.

As applause broke out for this first feat, he was already in motion to perform a second. Walking over to one of the barrels of apples, he took five in his arms and stood atop the podium again. Leaning his head back, he stacked them one by one on his forehead, though Merrick had to stack the last two because the traveler's arms weren't long enough. Merely balancing them was impressive enough, but he took up his sword in his right hand and, with five twirls of his wrist, diced each apple horizontally in half. The top halves flew with unerring accuracy into the hands of each of the nearest villagers, while the bottom halves fell neatly atop each other and remained stacked.

The clapping easily drowned out even the roar of the flames as the stranger drew three tiny knives from his belt, the blade of each no more than half an inch in length. He set the miniature hilts in each of the gaps between the fingers of his right hand, then motioned to Merrick and his sons. Through demonstration, he directed them each to toss an apple into the air, the tossing hands kept well away from their bodies. He signaled with his left hand, and they threw the apples; a whoosh of air and a soft thud later, each fruit was stuck with a dagger.

Not content with this, the stranger drew his hood over his eyes, turned backwards, and motioned again, a new set of daggers in his hand. The apples flew up again; the crowd held their breath. His accuracy had been pinpoint before, but now he couldn't know where the apples were. Merrick looked a little nervous; bad aim, and he might catch one of the little daggers in the eye. Nevertheless, three apples went up in the air. The stranger's ears twitched; just as the apples were about to hit the ground, he twisted fluidly on the spot and sent the three little weapons to impact right next to their twins.

Cheering and clapping echoed through the valley, deafening as it reverberated off of each of the rocky sides of the steep mountains flanking the village. He took a bow, stepped down from the platform, and retrieved his knives from the apples before taking a mighty bite from one of them. Hands clapped him on the back, shouting encouragement he couldn't understand but was nevertheless encouraged by. Someone thrust a plate of choice pork at him, and he accepted with a smile and a gracious nod of his head before digging in as thought it might vanish if he waited.

He was smiling and shaking hands all around when the screaming began. It took a moment for it to register over the merry shouts, but when it did everyone quickly fell silent, looks of confusion on their faces. The stranger vaulted back onto the podium to look around, then pointed, yelling something in his strange tongue; everyone's gaze followed his finger. It was Ayan, screaming with all of the air she could gulp down. In front of her was a beetle, a good two feet long and with six-inch mandibles that flung spittle about as it advanced on her.

Merrick ran for his spear, but Lilian was faster. Grasping one of the heavy barrels, she strained with all her might and, managing to lift it off the ground, sprinted toward the huge bug. She brought it down, adding her own weight to the impact; a sickening crunch, and foul ichors spattered her skirt. She howled in pain; the stuff burned horribly. Ayan was half screaming and half weeping now, and that was when it registered that Kess was nowhere to be seen. "Find him!" Merrick's voice was panicked as he pulled off his shirt to cover the welts rising on the innkeeper's ankles. The traveler drew his sword again, snatched up a torch, and ran into the darkness, the villagers shortly behind.

* * *

They found him some distance away, pinned beneath three of the creatures as he writhed in pain. He was trying to free his sword, but one of the creatures had sunk its fangs into his shoulder, and he didn't seem to be able to move it anymore. The stranger charged without hesitation, sweeping his torch before him in wide arcs. Two of the bugs scuttled away, hissing, but one remained embedded in Kess's flesh. Remembering the spatter of acid the last time one had been cut apart, he dropped his sword and grasped the ugly bug by its back legs.

A moment of struggle and he pulled it free. It hung there in the darkness, squirming horribly, its bloody mandibles rubbing against one another while its bulbous black eyes stared out of its foul carapace. The traveler didn't hesitate long; he thrust his torch into its jaws, and with a strange, alien scream it began to burn. He tossed it away, snatched his sword back up, and stepped in front of Kess, who was still lying on the ground and moaning. Waving his torch, he kept the growing crowd of bugs back; in the darkness they hissed and snapped, but came no closer.

Uthel dropped to his knees beside his cousin, examining his wound. It was very deep; beneath the ruined flesh and pooling blood, bone was visible. Kess would be lucky to retain the use of his arm, provided any of them even survived to worry about it. He looked up and saw his brother Alten, who had taken up a torch, imitating the stranger, but the bugs were growing bolder, less afraid of the flames. "We need to move him! Now!" With a curse, Uthel hauled his delirious cousin to his feet and bent him over his shoulder, then beat a hasty retreat back up the dirt path.

Alten and the stranger stayed at the back of the group to cover their escape, waving their torches at what had become a horde of scuttling monstrosities. They were having to actively bat at or kick creatures that got too close now, and even slap aside a few of the creatures that managed to leap at them. Moving his eyes back to the road ahead, he spied the Appleblossom only a few paces away. "Into the inn, quick!" The crowd opened the doors and dashed inside. Bugs were moving to surround Alten and his companion; they nodded at each other and broke into a run, leaping into the Appleblossom just in time for Uthel to slam the door behind them.

The press of foul bodies jolted against the door, but a table was quickly wedged against it, and angry hisses soon sounded outside. Many of the villagers sank down against the wall, exhausted, but Alten was on his feet immediately. "What about father and Lilian?" That roused Uthel, too. "They'll be gone by now, lad," someone whispered, but he was having none of it. "I'm not leaving them out there. Who's with me?" Uthel gently laid Kess across the table, tying one of the sleeves of his jacket over his injury, and took up a torch; no one else moved.

Then the stranger, torch still in hand, seemed to grasp what they were planning to do, and quickly nodded. That was it; the three of them, one of whom they scarcely knew, against whatever plague of beasts raged outside. He and Alten had every reason to want to go, but why this other man, a little younger than they? Still, they would be foolish to question his aid. They ran for the back door, threw it open, and leapt out into the night. The bugs hadn't surrounded the building yet, but the door slammed shut behind them, and something heavy moved into place behind it.

The trio sprinted uphill toward the orchard, where the bonfire still glowed. Emerging from behind a shack, they beheld a nightmare scene; illuminated by the orange light, Merrick was trying to fend off seven bugs at once with his spear, while Lilian was hurling coals from her gloved hands. Behind them, the beetles were crawling into the carefully packed trade barrels, eating nonstop. The crack and snap of the fire mingled with the snapping of their jaws as they devoured, bit by bit, the entirety of the harvest.

But there was no time to think about that. The three young men crashed into the beetles menacing Merrick, crushing and burning the surprised creatures. Lilian howled and collapsed when they tried to put her back on her feet, so Alten and Uthel picked her up between them and rushed back toward the inn, beckoning to their father. The stranger played rearguard again, but no beetles were bothering to pursue them. Running up to the Appleblossom, they discovered that all of the bugs had left it; all of them were probably in the orchard. They beat on the doors, shouting, and something on the other side slid away.

As soon as the door swung open they dashed inside; others quickly sealed the entrance behind them. Alten and Uthel laid Lilian on another table; the welts on her legs were becoming more pronounced. "They got… they got the harvest." Merrick sank down, panting, his head bowed. His words were greeted with stunned silence. As the night wore on, few of them even moved; they sat, huddled and fearful, as insects clicked and skittered outside.

* * *

They emerged in the morning to find the creatures long gone. The other villagers, having taken shelter in their homes, were safe; no one had been killed, though several had been bitten or sprayed with the acid ichors. The bonfire had gone out during the night, and was nothing but smoldering coals; though several logs had probably rolled out while still burning, the bugs had eaten the grass of the orchard first, and nothing had caught fire. The apple trees, barren of their fruit and most of their leaves, stood like tall, gaunt skeletons.

The barrels had been smashed open by foul fangs; none of their sweet contents remained. The scene was surreal; where everything had been vibrant the night before, now it was barren. "How will we pay the grain merchants?" Ayan's question caused Merrick to turn to her. "We won't." The implication hung heavily in the air. The apples inside the inn wouldn't keep, and they would be very lucky to find enough game to support half of them through the winter. They were going to starve.

The aging farmer turned to the young traveler. "Thank you for your help," he said, giving a little bow and nod to get his meaning across, "but you should go. There's nothing for you here." He pointed toward the gate, his mournful face leaving no doubt that it was a recommendation and not an eviction. The traveler reached out with one hand and lowered the pointing arm. "Suz-tay," he said haltingly. "Suz… sustay an' help." Pointing to himself, he said, "Trimos. I help."


End file.
